


Hawkeye

by WhoStarLocked



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Awesome Clint Barton, Bad Parenting, Child Abuse, Childhood, Childhood Trauma, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint Barton Feels, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Deaf Clint Barton, Kid Clint Barton, Origin Story, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Child Abuse, Protective Barney Barton
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2020-12-31 18:03:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21149918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhoStarLocked/pseuds/WhoStarLocked
Summary: The story of how Clint Barton became Hawkeye, and how Hawkeye became one of SHIELD's best assets.





	1. Prologue

His footsteps echo off the smooth grey walls as makes his way through the corridor. He doesn’t hesitate to push open the nondescript black door, feeling his face slip into his usual ‘pleasant-paper-pusher’ mask. He does pause momentarily on the other side of the door, observing their latest prisoner with a slight frown. Still, it’s barely a second before he makes his way over to the table and takes a seat opposite the young man. Phil spares a moment to glance across at the one-way window set in the wall to his left. It’s stupid, but he swears he can feel Fury’s gaze on him even through the glass.

“So, what’s your name?”

The young man opposite him has his forearms resting on the table, the cuffs tying him to the table pulled taut to accommodate his position. All Phil can see is a crop of filthy, matted blonde hair, the rest of the guy’s face hidden by his hands. His arms are littered with cuts and bruises. He’s lucky to have come through that fight relatively unscathed, Phil thinks. Either that, or he’s good.

There’s an unintelligible mumble in response to his question, and Phil has to fight the urge to raise an eyebrow. Honestly he was expecting a sullen silence for at least an hour.

“Sorry?” He replies, keeping his tone polite and cheery.

Heaving a sigh, the guy sits back. Phil wants to wince in sympathy for the shiner the guy is sporting, but then, said guy had also been about to shoot Phil, so. Phil stays quiet and still as the man looks him over, regarding him silently. After a few minutes, though, he speaks.

“You know my name.”

“Maybe I forgot.” Phil answers, completely straight-faced. The guy’s expression edges quickly into an unimpressed frown. Phil gets the feeling that if he could fold his arms across his chest he would have.

Phil does feel kind of sorry for him – after all, he is well aware that the man knows he knows at least his alias, and this is just about making him say it out loud, making him admit defeat.

After a few more minutes of nothing but tense silence, Phil sighs.

“I don’t have to sit around here if you don’t want to play ball. I can call the cops anytime and have you dumped in the prison cell you deserve to be in for the crimes you’ve committed. So if you want out, just tell me now, so we’re not wasting our time.”

Across from him, the man’s lips curl into what might’ve been a cocky smirk, but it falls short of the mark. The guy seems too world-weary to really pull it off.

“But, you’re not going to.”

“Oh?” Phil responds, raising an eyebrow. “What makes you think that?”

The guy shrugs. “You call the cops, put me in a car. You know I’d never get to that prison.”

Phil shamelessly takes the opening he’s been given.

“And is that what you want? To go back to your life of petty theft, murder, and jumping at shadows?”

The man’s expression never wavers, but Phil doesn’t really expect it to. He doesn’t need a physical response right now, the man’s silence is telling enough.

“I didn’t think so.” Phil continues. “So I’ll ask you once more. What’s your name?”

_19 years previously _

A scream cuts through the humid midsummer stillness. Even though his clothes are already sticky with sweat, Barney curls even further into himself, back pressing into the rough bark of a tree, holding his hands over his ears, desperate to try and shut out the noise of his mother’s wails.

His eyes are clenched tight shut, but he opens them immediately when he feels a shadow fall across him. Even at five, he knows the danger of not giving his father eye contact.

He is carrying a bottle of whiskey, half-empty, despite the fact it’s barely midday. Barney can’t contain his flinch as his father leans down and snatches at his wrists, yanking them away from his ears.

“Ge’ used to it, brat.” He tells Barney, speech stilted and slurred. “With another fucking bastard in the house, god knows there’ll be more screamin’.”

Barney swallows, lets his eyes drop, focuses on his feet. He takes a deep breath before he dare talk.

“When my friend’s sister was born,” he starts, eyes darting up to gauge his father’s reaction. He’s taking a swig from the bottle, so Barney carries on. “He said doctors came to the house to help.”

Before he can even blink, his father has dropped his bottle, and managed to grab Barney’s shirt collar in his fist. He drags Barney up to his feet, the tree bark digging into his skin. Barney knows better than to cry about the pain, so he stays still and silent as his father spits down at him.

“That bitch don’t need no goddamn doctor, y’hear? Don’t go talking about this to anyone, or I’ll get my belt on you. Am I understood?”

Barney nods, instantly relieved when his father releases him, retrieves his whiskey and takes a long drink.

Barney turns to look at the house; his mum is no longer screaming. Instead, he can hear a loud insistent crying.

“Get in there, brat. She’ll only complain if you don’t.” Barney looks to him as he finishes his whiskey and drops the bottle in the glass. “Anyone at school asks, you tell ‘em it was dead.”

“Okay.” Barney whispers in acknowledgement, slipping past his father and heading for the door. He finds his mother sitting back against a chair in the living room, gingerly wiping blood off the baby she’s holding. The door creaks as Barney opens it, and his mom looks around, smiling when she sees him.

“Barney, this is your little brother.” She says, still watching him. Barney doesn’t move, can’t tear his eyes away from the towels all over the floor. They’re bloody. Before he can stop himself, he blurts:

“You’re not dying, are you?”

Edith chuckled for a moment. “No, sweetheart, I’m not dying.” Reassured, Barney shuffles forward so he can see the sleeping baby.

“It’s a boy?” He asks, chewing at his fingernails.

“Mmhmm. Come say hi.” Barney reaches out a hand slowly, and his mom guides it gently towards the baby’s open palm. When the baby wraps his hand around Barney’s finger, he feels oddly... attached.

“What’s he called?” Barney asks, watching the baby in fascination.

For a moment, she doesn’t reply, simply looks at her baby.

“Clint.” She answers eventually. “He’s called Clint.”

“Hello, Clint Barton.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: There is EXPLICIT child abuse in this chapter! It is happening on-screen, please don't read if this is a trigger for you!

1986

The living room is cast in soft orange light by the setting sun. It makes the room look better, maybe even somewhere that could feel happy, Clint thinks. He lets out a small sigh, watching his bare toes curl in the carpet. The carpet is a weird brown colour, and Barney says it’s even older than him. It’s still the softest thing in the house, and when father is asleep and he can get away with it, Clint loves to run his feet through it, just for the feeling against his skin.

They don’t have many soft things at all. Suddenly, the sun is in his eyes, and Clint jerks his head up to look around. It’s reflecting off father’s whiskey bottle. His father has the bottle grasped loosely in one hand. It’s nearly dragging on the floor, his arm is dangling over the edge of the couch that he’s sprawled all over. Clint watches him for another second, but he’s not woken up, not properly, anyway.

Across the room, his mother lets out a big sigh and leans forward. She picks up her own bottle of whiskey from the coffee table, making an angry sound when she realises the bottle is empty.

When she looks his way, Clint smiles at her, but she doesn’t react. Clint knows she doesn’t really care. She’s pretty, Clint thinks. Or, she was. Her hair is like the sun at the moment. It’s mostly tucked up on her head today, but a few strands have escaped, framing her face with the pretty orange. Barney’s hair is the same as hers, but Clint’s is like his father’s. Bright blonde, Barney had told him, like the hay they see in the other farm fields. 

His father snorts in his sleep, but he still doesn’t stir. Clint watches him, watches the way his stomach rises and falls as he snores on. Clint doesn’t want to look like him, hopes that his hair will change as he grows. He looks at the table between his parents. It’s broken on one corner, little bits of wood sticking up in every direction. Barney had scratched his hand on it last week, and Clint had watched as their mother had pulled the bits of wood out of his skin.

“Clint.”

Clint drags his feet through the carpet as he turns and goes into the kitchen. Barney is putting food onto plates on the table. They’ll eat there, out of sight, but father doesn’t join them. When Barney sees Clint in the doorway, he hands over a tray with a plate of food with a grim smile. Clint takes it, and very carefully carries it back into the living room. He stops in front of the couch, nervously fidgeting.

“Father.” He says, and his voice is all wobbly. He bites his lip, waiting for a response, but his father just keeps snoring.

“Father!” He’s louder this time. When his father starts to sit up, Clint hastily steps back out of his way, his legs pressed up against the table.

Clint waits, rocking from side to side while his father yawns and rubs at his eyes. Then, his eyes settle on the plate of food.

He stares for a moment, then glares up at Clint. Clint’s stomach swoops with nerves.

“What the hell is this crap? You expect me to eat this shit?” He spits, gesturing at the plate with his free hand. Clint can feel tears welling in his eyes.

“Leave him be. The food’s fine.” His mother slurs from the other side of the table, and Clint can’t hold back a wince. He wonders why _he _knows that that’s going to make father angry, and _she_ doesn’t. She’s lived with him far longer than Clint has.

Sure enough, his father stands up suddenly, towering over Clint.

“You telling me I’m blind, woman?” He yells, and Clint wants to drop the tray and run, but he knows he won’t get away in time if he does.

His father lifts his arm up, trying to take a drink, but there’s not enough space with Clint standing there, and the bottle jerks the tray upwards. The plate of food slides towards Clint, spilling all over his chest, and Clint drops the tray as it burns through his shirt. It crashes onto the floor.

“You damn stupid-” Harold roars

“I’m sorry!” Clint cries back, trying not to cry, because crying always makes it worse.

Before he can realise what’s going on, Harold has raised his bottle again, and he hits Clint’s head with it so hard that it breaks, and the glass flies everywhere. Clint can’t stop himself from screaming, and he falls, smacking the other side of his head into the broken corner of the table on the way down.

Pain blossoms on both sides of his head, and his ears feel warm, and everything suddenly seems muted. His vision goes funny as he feels his father kick him in the side.

“Shut up, you pathetic baby!” His father is shouting at the top of his voice, Clint knows, because his face has gone bright red, but Clint can barely hear him. “How dare you interrupt me?” Clint cries as his father leans down and yanks him up by the neck of his shirt. He turns his head to the side automatically when he sees his father draw back a fist, but it never hits him. Clint is dropped suddenly, and when he looks up again, he sees Barney valiantly trying to push him away.

“Leave him alone!” Barney yells, but their father smacks him across his face and Barney lets out a small cry, staggering backwards.

“I’ve had enough of you two bastards! I work my ass off to put a roof over your damn heads, and this is how you behave! It’s despicable!”

Harold rushes forward as he yells at them, and grabs them both by an ear. Clint shrieks as his father drags him upright, and white hot pain shoots through his head. Clint finds his feet, but his father doesn’t let go, instead he shakes Clint’s head aggressively.

He has to bite down on his lip so hard it bleeds to stop screaming. When he does, Harold begins walking, dragging them both towards the cellar door. Clint catches his mother’s eye as he’s dragged past, but her expression doesn’t falter at all. She watches blankly as Harold releases them, opens the door and shoves them through into the blackness on the other side. Clint watches her turn away as the door slams shut.

Clint doesn’t try and stop crying. He can’t tell if he’s making any sound, everything still sounds like it’s faraway, and his ears are aching. Barney grabs his hand and helps him down the cellar steps in silence. They’ll be lucky if Harold lets them out the next morning.

Once they’ve reached the bottom, Barney turns on the light, filling the damp room with dim yellow light.

“My ears hurt.” Clint says, voice slurring, and Barney sighs. He sniffs.

“Come here, let me see.” Barney answers, but Clint doesn’t move towards him, or even turn around. Barney’s about to speak again when Clint turns to face him, blue eyes red rimmed from crying.

“Barney?” His voice wavers, like he’s moments away from tears, and Barney just prays that he doesn’t cry, because if their father hears him crying he’ll come down and hurt them again. “My ears hurt.” Clint repeats.

Barney frowns. “And I said, come here, an’ I’ll look at it.”

Clint’s eyes widen and fill with tears as he speaks, and Barney feels his stomach drop.

“I can’t hear!” Clint shrieks, and Barney runs towards him as he starts to cry.

“Clint, shush, shush, he’ll hear!” Barney pleas in a low tone, but of course, it’s no good. Clint can’t hear him.

He lifts Clint’s chin up with one hand, and then presses a finger to his lips, and thankfully, Clint seems to understand. He gulps, but he stops crying.

“Why can’t I hear?” Clint asks after a minute, and Barney pulls him into a hug, careful not to touch his ears. Barney realises they’re covered in blood, and he suddenly feels helpless.

“I don’t know what to do.” He whispers into Clint’s hair.

Clint clings to him all night.

* * *

2002

“Hawkeye,” The alias has a good ring to it. It rolls smoothly off Phil’s tongue. He lets the silence brew for a minute before continuing. “That’s not the name you were born with. At least, I hope it isn’t.”

Across the table, Hawkeye snorts gently at the joke. He doesn’t give another name though, and Phil knows he’s smart enough to have picked up on the unasked question. Instead, he looks across at the one-way window.

“Don’t I get to know your names?” He asks, shifting his gaze back to Phil. Phil gives him a bland smile.

“Maybe, when we get to know yours.” 

Hawkeye glances around the room, his eyes lingering on the surveillance cameras.

“A group this organised, with such _highly trained_ agents,” He sneers, turning back to Phil once again. “You must at least have an idea of who I am.”

Phil does. Phil has a whole file filled with scraps of information that tell his life story.

“Tell me who you think I am, an’ I’ll tell you if you’re wrong.” The man smirks, but it’s still dead behind the eyes. He’s tired of his life, Phil can see it, not just in his fake smile, but in the set of his shoulders, the frown that seems to have permanent residence on his face.

Phil decides to humour him.

“You’re Charles Bernard Barton, only child of Harold and Elizabeth Barton, born in 1978 in Waverley, Iowa.”

Hawkeye’s expression doesn’t waver, but there’s suddenly a glint in his eye where there had been nothing before, and Phil suddenly loses confidence in his conviction.

“Wrong.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case the timeline isn't quite clear, for this fic, Clint was born in 1983, and so in this chapter he's 3 years old, and in the 'present day' where he's being interrogated by Phil, he's 19.


End file.
